


this time imperfect

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Series: Matt's loosely connected fics about Laura and Daken [1]
Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Drug Use, Snikt Snikt, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Daken," she says flatly. If she was Wolverine she'd probably her down her drink right now. Laura has yet to develop enough of a taste for alcohol to consider that course of action. "I am not sure why you are here but I am not in the mood to play your games."</p>
<p>He merely laughs at her, and she turns to look at him. His eyes glitter darkly in the dim light, filled with the amusement Daken always seems to take in discomforting people. "Oh but Laura, you're always so fun to play with."</p>
            </blockquote>





	this time imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from an AFI song, because I'm a massive loser and suck at choosing titles.

Laura is in a bar. It's not the first time, but it's the first time in a while. She's trying something out. Trying out normal. Logan spends a lot of time in places like this. So far she's yet to see the attraction. The air is thick with smoke, the wood of the bar tacky with spilt beer, the sounds of people talking and laughing loudly, drunkenly, ring in her ears. It is... unpleasant.

Someone slides onto the stool next to her, uncomfortably close and she stiffens. Without looking up, she informs whoever has sat next to her, "I am not looking for company, and if you are hoping I can provide you with... companionship, you are mistaken."

The stranger chuckles, and Laura immediately recognises the sound. It has featured in some unpleasant dreams of hers ever since she met the owner. "Oh but Laura, I was so looking forward to spending some family time together."

"Daken," she says flatly. If she was Wolverine she'd probably her down her drink right now. Laura has yet to develop enough of a taste for alcohol to consider that course of action. "I am not sure why you are here but I am not in the mood to play your games."

He merely laughs at her, and she turns to look at him. His eyes glitter darkly in the dim light, filled with the amusement Daken always seems to take in discomforting people. "Oh but Laura, you're always so fun to play with."

She does not respond to his words. She is not good at reading people, not good at knowing what people mean they say one thing but mean another, and Daken never says what he truly means. Even his scent is dishonest. Instead she takes the opportunity to study him. She has not seen him since Madripoor. He looks thinner, like he has lost a lot of weight fast. She wonders what has happened to him that even with a healing factor he looks unwell. Eventually the smile falls off his lips and he turns to the bar, signaling the bartender over. She has been told her stare is disconcerting. She wonders if he finds it so. There are many questions she could ask, many questions she should ask. Where has he been? What is he planning? The only question she asks though is, "Why are you here, Daken?"

He snorts, a surprisingly vulgar sound for him, the refined killer. "Why do you think I'm here? The tasteful decor? The charming atmosphere?" He sneers, taking his drink with a nod of acknowledgment. "Christ, but this place is a dive. Clearly my good taste is not genetic. No, Laura. I'm here for you."

"For me." Laura says flatly. She does not bother with inflection, because it is not a question. It makes sense, she supposes. She still does not know why, but she does not think Daken would tell her. She is not convinced he knows why. A thought he half-echoes seconds later.

"Yes," he says sourly. "God knows why. It's certainly not for the scintillating conversation." He takes a drink.

She continues to stare steadily, fascinated despite herself. She thinks she knows why. She is not used to having insight into other people, but she thinks Daken came looking for her because he wants to know if she is like him in any way. She didn't think so at the time, but that's half the reason she went looking for him after all. She went to find him to see if she could find part of herself there with him. And she had. They were undeniably alike. Both killers. Both good at it. But they were different too, as Gambit had said, different in all the ways that matter.

Laura has come far enough that she doesn't entirely disagree with Gambit, but she thinks, as she looks at the line of Daken's jaw and recognizes her own, that the ways they are alike matter too.

Daken's looking back at her, frankly appraising her in a way that makes her very conscious of her clothes, of the skin exposed by her clothes. "Look at you. Dressed like a baby prostitute. No subtlety. You're nothing like me, you're just like _him_."

Laura watches Daken's fist clench as he speaks, the way it goes white-knuckled as he mentions Logan. She thinks, _we are not the only ones who lack subtlety,_ but she does not say it. "I am not a prostitute." Not anymore, she adds silently. Daken does not need to know that, however.

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow and its like he can tell anyway. Laura wonders, though she knows it's only paranoia, if he can somehow smell it on her. "Then why do you dress like one?" He says gently, smiling maddeningly. "Really, Laura, a corset and fishnets? How.... uninspired."

"I like these clothes," she says. They remind her of Debbie. She feels suddenly cold and wishes she hadn't gone out without her jacket, Logan's jacket. She wants to cut. She takes a drink. The burn of the alcohol is a poor substitute.

"To each their own," Daken says, ending the conversation, unaware or uncaring of the damage he has done.

Laura wonders why she is not like him. She has done many bad things in her life, but she is not cruel. She is certainly not callous. She cares. She cuts. She bleeds. Daken just wants to revel in the flames. She wonders which of them is better off.

"What are you thinking, Laura?" Daken says, still smiling. "What thoughts can a creature like you have? Do you dream, I wonder, Laura?" The words are cruel, but he does not seem to be asking purely to hurt her. He seems to be genuinely curious. The way he looks at her remind her of the way the scientists in the lab used to look at her. He does not think of her as a person. It hurts, but now she knows he is wrong. She has a soul. He is the one for whom that is in question.

"You have not changed, Daken." She says, finishing her drink. She wants to leave.

He seems to read her mind, yet again. "You mean since we last met, on Madripoor. You said we were both constructs."

Her eyes flick to his momentarily. She is unable to help it. Even though she knows she should leave, she stays sat. She is surprised he remembers what she said. She is even more surprised to find she is pleased that he does, that he listened.

"Yes I remember," he says, as if in answer to her thoughts yet again. "But you're wrong, Laura. I have changed. And so have _you_."

"I know I have," Laura says, "but I am not convinced you have done the same."

Instead of responding, Daken leans across, bridging the already small space between them. It makes Laura tense, makes the skin between her knuckles prickle as her claws push themselves closer to the surface. Her breathing becomes shallower. Even at this distance, she cannot smell Daken. He remains as elusive as ever.

He is clearly aware of the effect his proximity has on her. "Relax," he says with a scornful smile, "I'm not going to hurt you, Laura. What a suspicious mind you have." He snatches her drink between his long, slender fingers, and sits back.

Laura forces her breathing to slow, forces her muscles to loosen. Her body is obedient, well-trained. "If you try to hurt me again, I will kill you."

For a minute she thinks Daken will attack her, take her words as challenge, instead of a simple declaration of fact. That the odd ceasefire will cease. Instead, he laughs. Her words seem to amuse him, for some odd, unknowable reason. "That's the spirit," he says, toasting her with her own drink. He grimaces as he swallows. "Laura, Laura. You may be Wolverine's clone, but that doesn't mean to have to drink the same shit he does."

"I know," Laura says shortly. "I think I will go." She wants to leave suddenly, get away from this dark room, from all the people in it, all the noise and smell. Away from Daken and his cruel smile and slippery words that sting.

Daken makes a sudden, vexed noise, a flash of irritation crossing his face, and he grabs her wrist. "No!" He says, then, as if he is embarrassed by the emotion he has betrayed, softer, with studied indifference. "No, don't go yet," he flashes her a smile, glances coyly. "Let me buy you a drink. I insist. You owe it to your palate, if not to me."

"Remove your hand," Laura says flatly. Daken glances down, as if he had not realised he was still holding her wrist, and lets go.

Laura wonders why he is so desperate for her to stay, if it's some kind of ploy or trap. The sensible course of action would be to leave and inform Wolverine that Daken is back. He had told her that Daken had died in LA, but Laura had known he was wrong. The lack of a body for one, but more than that, a feeling, had told her he still lived. They were blood. Laura thought she would somehow feel it if he died. Wolverine had told her she was wrong. He'd been emphatic, stinking of grief and beer. She hasn't argued, but she suspected he knew she was right, that he too sensed that Daken lived.

She doesn't respond verbally, but she stays sat, and Daken seems satisfied that she won't go, turning to the bar to order her a drink. It seems the kind of drinks he likes require instructions. In some ways he is very different to her and Logan. Laura wonders if the reason he wants her to stay is as simple as that he is lonely. It seems odd to think of him that way, as someone wanting the warmth of human companionship. The Daken she met on Madripoor, she would never have believed it of. That creature had been a solitary predator. The only use he had had for people then was as pawns. This Daken however, seems more melancholy somehow. Subdued in some way. "You have changed," she decides.

Daken glances at her. He does not seem surprised somehow at her comment. "Yes," he says simply, and for a moment Laura feels like she is really seeing him, that for once, he is not lying.

The bartender returns and places a drink in front of Laura. The moment passes, Daken looks away. Laura looks at the drink dubiously. It is in a tall glass. It is blue and smells very sweet. There is a small umbrella in it. It is definitely not something that Logan would drink.

"Go on try it," Daken says, eyes glittering with laughter, "it's not poisoned, I give you my word."

"I am not sure your word has much value," Laura says, sniffing the drink. She cannot smell anything wrong with the drink, besides the vast amounts of sugar it contains, but she has a feeling that Daken is an expert with poison and drugs.

Daken makes an irritated noise and snatches the drink. "It's not poisoned, you silly girl," he says, taking a sip. He looks faintly ridiculous, drinking from a glass which contains a miniature umbrella. "See?" He hands it back to her.

She accepts it finally and takes a small gulp. The drink is very sweet. It almost masks the alcohol.

"Well?" Daken asks, raising one eyebrow, "is it to your taste?"

"Yes," Laura says, pleasantly surprised. She takes another sip. "It's very sweet. I like it."

Daken makes a slightly strangled noise, and she smiles slightly. She is not stupid. She is aware that to Daken, buying her a drink like this was some kind of joke, some comment on her... her lack of taste perhaps? Her inability to know the difference between good whiskey and cheap, between different types of wine? To him, these things matter. To her they do not. She is just glad this drink is more enjoyable to consume than whiskey or beer. "What is it called?" she asks.

"A Blue Lagoon," Daken says distantly, staring at her like he`s trying to work her out. Laura nods, for once unperturbed by his stare, and finishes her drink. A Blue Lagoon; the name alone is delicious, bringing back memories of her time with Gambit. It is unusual for things to trigger pleasant associations like that. She smiles, and Daken looks sour. Somehow, she has gained the upper hand. "I think I would like another."

"Interesting," Daken says, as if to himself, "I would not have thought you had a sweet tooth, Laura. It seems... odd, that a killing machine should enjoy sweet things."

"I am not a machine, Daken," Laura says, trying to attract the bartender's attention. "Do not call me so again."

"Sorry," Daken replies, sounding unrepentant. "But surely you can see why I am amused. You're a lethal weapon that likes cocktails. I doubt the men who created you anticipated that."

"There is a lot that the people who created me did not anticipate," Laura says, still trying to get the bartender's attention.

"Yes," Daken says, still staring at her with that same fascination, as if he wishes to vivisect her with his eyes. "I'm beginning to see that."

He turns to the bar and nods the bartender over, effortlessly grabbing his attention. Laura watches as he places his order. He speaks in a low, measured voice, quiet enough that the bartender has to lean close to him to hear it, and she watches the flush of colour rise in the bartender's cheeks, the way his eyes linger on Daken appreciatively. People like to be near Daken in a way she can't understand. He is attractive, she knows, with his beautiful clothes and high cheekbones and inky black hair, but to her it is obvious he is beautiful in the same way a panther is, or some poisonous creature. Beneath his allure he is dangerous.

The bartender's eyes meet hers for an instant as he feels her stare on him, before skittering away uncomfortably. People know she is dangerous when they look at her and she can't tell how they know, but it makes them uneasy around her. People do not feel the same fascinated pull to her that they do to Daken, or even that they do to Logan, deny it as he might. That strikes her as unfair.

The bartender leaves, presumably to fetch then more drinks, even though Daken is still not done with his second. "What did you order?" Laura asks.

Daken just smiles. "Wait and see."

They fall into silence. Daken takes another sip of his wine and looks around the bar, seemingly content. Laura is left with her thoughts. With most others, this silence would be awkward, she knows. Perhaps it should be awkward, but she finds it actually easy to sit here with Daken, easier than it is to sit with Logan in fact, and she frowns at that thought, discouraged. What does it say about her that she is more comfortable sitting with Daken, the merciless killer, the black sheep in their family of murderers, than she is with Logan, the man who loves her, who wants her to be better? Daken wants her to be like him, she knows, or at least he did back on Madripoor. He hadn't pushed her about it tonight, hasn't asked her to join him, hasn't asked her anything at all in fact, not even what she's doing here, in a bar, alone. Perhaps he thinks she does this all the time. He doesn't know her after all. For all he knows this is how she spends every evening, alone in a bar. She finds that thought oddly pleasing. It fills her with an sense of power.

The bartender returns and places another drink in front of her. It's a different one from before. This one has a long, twisted straw in it and another umbrella. She tries it. It's sweet and tastes of strawberries. She likes it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Daken is looking at her again, head tilted to one side, his hair falling carelessly over his face. She frowns, considering. He mistakes it for lack of understanding. "It means I want to know what you're thinking."

"I know," Laura tells him, "I am familiar with the expression." She looks down. "I was wondering what this drink is called."

"Strawberry Dacquiri," Daken says, and Laura nods, taking another sip. "But that's not what you were thinking about." He brushes his hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear. Laura watches. They all have black hair, her, Logan and him, but his is darker, softer looking, finer.

She doesn't want to tell him that's she's thinking about all the ways they are alike, but he's looking at her expectantly and she finds she doesn't want the conversation to end. "It tastes like cotton candy," she says instead.

He chuckles, amused, and the sound doesn't send chills down Laura's spine for once. In the warm, low light of the bar, with a smile softening the sharp edges of his face, she can almost see why people are drawn to him. "Of course you like cotton candy," he says, sounding almost fond.

It is alarming. "Yes," Laura says, looking down and breaking eye-contact, wanting to break the moment. "Logan took me to a fair ground. He bought me some. It was the first time I had ever tried it," she pauses, lost in the sense memory for a second, eyes unfocused as she remembers, the way the candy had dissolved on her tongue, leaving only sweetness behind. "It was the day he told me he would adopt me. That we were family."

She hears Daken inhale roughly. The smile has frozen on his face. For a moment she can see the naked rage on his face, and she feels an odd satisfaction. He had been trying to get to her all night, with his cruel words and his insinuations, the constant implication that she is not real. It feels good to upset him. It is not nice, she knows, but it feels good.

Daken had schooled his face back into a mask of polite indifference by this point, as if she has told him nothing of interest, but she knows better. "How touching," he says, smiling coldly, furiously. "No, really, I'm moved. A daddy monster and a baby monster, both pretending they're harmless. It's good." He leans in, says confidentially, "You know he'll kill you though, don't you? If you ever stop pretending." He leans back, eyes searching her face for her reaction.

Laura stares back impassively. Her face feels numb. She wonders if the alcohol is finally kicking in.

Daken seems dissatisfied. She has not given him the reaction he wants. He finishes his drink, mouth twisting as though wine is sour though she can smell it is not. He leans forward, eyes distant. His hair slides free from behind his ear to fall across his face, concealing his expression. Laura wonders again if she should leave. The clock above the bar shows it is getting late, and while she doubts the academy staff will mind, as they have made it clear she is free to come and go as she pleases, she wonders if she should get back. They might tell Wolverine she was out late and he might worry... No. She knows he would not worry. Not because he does not care, but he knows she can take care of herself, and knows that sometimes she likes to be alone. He says that's one of the ways they're so alike. He loves her, she knows that.

"It must sting," Daken begins, suddenly. His words jolt her out of her thoughts and she glances over, confused. He goes on before she can become too perplexed. "That he loves me too. He does, you know?" Daken laughs sharply, without amusement. He's twisting the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. She does not think she has ever seen Daken do anything so close to fidgeting before. She notices it because it's one of the ways they are the same. He knows how to be still, a skill few possess, and it's trained into him the same way it's trained into her. It reminds her that they were both made. She wonders if Romulus punished him the way the scientists used to punish her. He notices her watching his agitated movements and stills his hands, placing the glass down with a deliberate clink. It feels like a kind of confirmation.

Laura blinks. "Yes," she agrees, "he loves you. He was sad when he thought you were dead even though it would have been better if you were."

"That's because he's a fool," Daken sneers, but Laura hears the breath catch in his throat. The words are said with venom, but with no real bite. It feels like a pale shadow of the rage he'd shown her on Madripoor, the burning passion that he'd allowed to consume him in literal flames. She'd stood there with him, at the epicentre of the explosion. She knew now that she's gotten closer to him than anyone else, because no one else could get that close and survive. Once again she wonders what has happened to make him change.

"I wanted to leave him with nothing," Daken says. It has the air of confession to it, the ring of honesty. Laura does not know why he has decided to confess to her of all people. She is not the one he owes explanations to for his actions, which she knows killed some and hurt countless more. She knows he hurt Logan in a way that still hasn't healed. She listens though, as he goes on. "I thought that I could do that, but I was wrong." He smiles and shakes his head at himself, but she can see he is angry. Sad too, though he'd never admit it. "Because he has you, doesn't he, Laura?" He looks up at her, suddenly cold. "Perhaps I should kill you. What do you think? Would it break his heart, do you think?"

Laura says nothing, unable to look away from Daken.

He smiles suddenly, intimately at her, as if he had not just discussed killing her. "But I won't kill you. For one thing, I like you, Laura, and for another, it wouldn't work. He would be sad, I'm sure, but he'd move on. He'd find something to fill the hole. Truth be told, it wouldn't even be that large of a hole. You're not the first child he's had to bury." Daken's smile twists. "And he thinks I'm heartless. Hypocrite. Like his guilt can wash the blood off his hands."

Laura finds it hard to swallow suddenly. She's not sure what emotion it is clogging her throat, but she does not like it. She feels her claws tear through her flesh as they slide soundlessly out. She wants to hurt herself very badly.

Daken is looking at her as if he knows what she's thinking, a bitterly triumphant smile on his face. "It's not fair, is it Laura?" he says gently, almost compassionately. "How everyone loves him and forgives him his many, many sins? How he has everything,and we have nothing." Daken finishes with finely controlled fury.

His claws slide out too, and he looks at her for a second as if he had changed his mind and wishes to hurt her,but then the second passes,and he's back in control,his claws disappearing inside his skin with a controlled click. She forces her own to retract,watches the skin heal over them, until you can't tell they are there at all. It's then she notices that Daken's knuckles are still bleeding,the blood slowly running down his fingers,and she watches uncomprehending.

"Ah yes," Daken says, following her gaze. He waves the bartender over and asks for a napkin. The bartender looks alarmed when he notices the blood, but Daken manages to reassure him with a few careful words, a reassuring smile and a gaze that lingers a little too long. Blushing, the bartender goes to fetch him some tissue, and Daken thanks him, before dismissing him. Laura watches. He is very good at getting people to do things for him.

"Do not be concerned," Daken says, saving up the blood with the tissue.

"I'm not," Laura says.

"Good," Daken says, and there's a faint edge to that, as if he's trying to resist gritting his teeth in irritation. “Because there's no need."

"Your healing factor is gone," Laura observes clinically. "That makes you vulnerable."

He looks at her sharply, with mistrust. Of course; he sees her as a fellow predator, and he knows that it only takes a moment of weakness to turn from predator to prey. He cannot conceive she does not think like this anymore. "Temporarily," he says with a smile that shows a lot of teeth.

"You think," Laura corrects, remembering, then continues, "It's because of a drug. It burnt out your healing factor and was killing you."

"Was," Daken frowns irritably. "Emphasis on the past tense. I am no longer dying, and my healing factor is returning. There is no permanent damage."

Laura doesn't say anything about the fact he still looks sick. Instead she says, as neutrally as she can manage. "Why did you take the drug?"

Daken glances at her, and scowls. "Why do you care? Want to rub it in my face how stupid I was? Well, don't bother. I doubt you could grasp why I did what I did even if I could be bothered to explain it to you."

Laura looks down. She doesn't tell him that she thinks she understands anyway. She chose to stay when he set the bomb off after all. She still remembers the way it felt, to feels the skin burn off her body, to feels her flesh boil and bake, the uncertainty of whether they would survive, whether this would be the thing that even she could not endure - or the freedom there had been in that moment. She shifts on her stool, and glances at the clock. It's late. The bar will be closing soon. "I'm going," she says to Daken.

"Fine," he says tonelessly, listlessly. His mood has shifted again, turned melancholic. "I'm bored of you anyway, Laura. Go away. Leave me alone."

She slides off her seat. She's short enough her feet dangle in the air when she sits on the high stools at the bar. She goes to get money out, to leave a tip, but Daken waves her away, snaps that he'll pay, and Laura lets him. She leaves without looking back.

 

 


End file.
